


At Last

by lornesgoldenhair



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 02:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4589541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lornesgoldenhair/pseuds/lornesgoldenhair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara and the Doctor go to New York to watch a jazz legend and share a first kiss. Whouffaldi. Designed as a one shot. Post Last Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Last

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Capaldisthebest](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Capaldisthebest).



> Sorry for the formatting. I'm having a terrible time posting from iPad and will fix when I can.

At Last  
For Capaldisthebest who sent me the prompt of the Doctor and Clara returning from an adventure to 1960s New York and a Jazz Bar where Etta James is playing, and sharing their first kiss. I hope this is what you pictured.

 

Hajauniclan III, Year 3415.  
‘Spaghetti monster!’ Clara declared as the doors to the TARDIS closed behind them, ‘Never mind your fancy alien terminology, that was a spaghetti monster!’ She moved towards the console.  
‘Stop right there, you’ll drip on the buttons,’ the Doctor’s voice floated over her shoulder causing her to tense and turn on him.  
‘You get us out of here then, and pick somewhere decent.’  
‘I don’t know what all the fuss is about, the way you reacted to their leader is it any wonder they were offended?’  
‘The way I…? Doctor! He spat spaghetti over me,’ Clara glared at him through her syrupy fringe, the hair matted with the peculiar substance which had ejected from the alien’s… mouth? Orifice? She didn’t want to clarify it, but whatever it was it had spaghettied her good and proper, strands of it still hanging from her face. And the Doctor’s face now she looked at him, over his face, in his hair, on his chest and his silly plaid trousers. His spaghetti was green, hers orange.  
‘Why is yours a different colour?’ she asked despite herself.  
He sighed like she was an imbecile ’Because I didn’t offend them by shrieking when they said hello. They communicate with this stuff Clara, when you first got splattered yours was green too but you reacted so hysterically they were quite put out and the next time they spoke…’  
‘They spoke? That was speaking? It looked like they were lobbing pasta. Pasta in luminous sauce.’  
‘They were being friendly,’ he raised his arms, ‘You should have followed by lead.’  
Clara folded her arms and stared at her companion. ‘I was too busy trying to get the goo out my eyes to see what your lead was…. Honestly Doctor…’  
‘What?’ he said distractedly trying to remove green spaghetti from his sleeve without much success. As he bent his head to peer at it a small blob of goo slithered down his nose and fell forward landing at his feet. Clara’s lips twitched.  
‘You look ridiculous,’ she said.  
‘Yes, well so do you,’ he glanced up at her, ‘Although the colour could be said to bring out your eyes…’  
Clara primped slightly, ‘You think?’  
This time it was his turn to repress his laughter. ‘Don’t let it go to your head.’ He reached up to pull some of the offending stuff out of her hair gently.  
‘It’s already on my head.’  
‘Shut up.’  
Finally she let the laughter out, the sight of the Doctor trying to groom them both into some sort of order had become too much. ‘I think you’ll need to change,’ she suggested, ‘And I think the hoodie may be ruined forever.’  
He looked at her mournfully, ‘That was my concern too…’  
‘Shower, change, regroup…’ Clara grinned, ‘And it’s my turn to pick the destination…’  
‘Yes, yes…. so it is…’ he rolled his eyes for effect, ‘Probably somewhere with palm trees and beaches again.’  
Clara’s face fell at his spot on prediction. ‘Not necessarily.’  
‘Oh?’ he queried knowingly.  
‘No! I don’t always chose…. ‘ she huffed in defeat, ‘I always chose beaches don’t I?’  
‘Fairly often yes, I could give you the exact figures and odds but…’  
‘No need,’ Clara chewed a nail and then rapidly withdrew it, pulling a face as the taste of the spaghetti sauce hit her tongue. ‘Not a beach then… ‘  
‘Of course if you are struggling for destinations I could always…’  
‘Am not… It’s my turn… I’ll think of one….leave it with me!’ and she trotted off down the corridor leaving a trail of goop behind her, the TARDIS burbling in complaint.  
‘I’m on it,’ the Doctor said, zapping the orange blobs with the sonic.

XXXXXXXXXX

  
Clara skipped into the room which had become hers full time on the TARDIS and looked around the chaos. She had never believed she could become so messy, so disorganised. She gave herself a look in the mirror, pulled a face as though to tell herself off and then burst into giggles again as the orange goo slipped down her cheeks. She couldn’t take herself seriously and she was far too happy. It had been a wild two weeks of more important events than tidying and the evidence lay around the room in discarded clothing with rips and stains and trinkets smuggled out of planets in piles. She had never had more fun. Grinning she headed for the en suite.  
A fortnight of non stop space travel, hopping through time, chasing comets, exploring planets, getting into varying levels of trouble. She had lost count of the species they had encountered, the jams they had got out of, the number of times they’d had to run for the safety of the TARDIS and take off into the vortex fast before something bad happened. It had been crazy. She had expected some level of madness when the pair of them hooked up again but she’d barely had time to breathe, and now they were looking for another adventure.  
‘Where to go where to go….?’ She muttered to herself, switching on the shower and pulling layers of sticky clothing from her body. What sort of place did she fancy today? Something with mountains or valleys or beaches... she chuckled… no not beaches… something densely populated and futuristic or something quaint and cottagey with meadows and lakes and no one for miles? Something exciting and unpredictable or calm and relaxing? Was anything ever calm and relaxing? She thought back over her time with the Doctor, and she struggled to think of a single time something relaxing hadn’t turned into a disaster of one form or another, laughing she stepped under the water and shut her eyes.  
The Doctor didn’t do calm relaxing and romantic.  
Clara’s eyes opened suddenly. Romantic? Who said anything about that? No he didn’t do calm and relaxing…. Just calm and relaxing. She squeezed her eyes shut and soaped the alien stuff from her hair. He did adventures and bravery and saving worlds and he took her with him, holding her hand and dragging her to safety.  
He did all of those heroics and more.  
And he did lying because he thought it would make her happy.  
And telling her he had found Gallifrey when he hadn’t.  
A heaviness settled over her. Clara let the water pound down over her fingertips as she held them in front of her, her hands cupped in a heart shape under the showerhead. Her wide smile had lessened. She’d been so angry and so confused about him leaving, about him coming back, about his confession that he had lied to let her be with Danny. But wasn’t that supposed to be the definition of love? Giving the one you loved everything. Even if it meant letting go?  
Maybe he did romance after all.  
Clara looked at her cupped hands and the water they contained, spilling over the edges of her fingers as the shower continued to run above her, pouring warmth into her palms until she couldn’t hold any more.  
Yes, maybe he did.

XXXXXXX

  
Something in her heart had woken again, she could feel it nervously stretching its wings, fluttering against her lungs until her breath shook. She’d felt it before, when she’d kissed him on the cheek that Christmas morning and held his hand as they ran to the TARDIS, but the problem was they hadn’t stopped running since then. Over excited children freed from responsibilities, they’d just dashed across space to wherever they fancied and failed to address what so badly needed addressing; their second chance and what that really meant.  
That thing was stirring now and insisting. Look at me, listen.  
What was stopping them? Why had the pace of their travels been just so frenetic since that day? Was he afraid that if they stopped moving the spell would break? Was she?  
Clara wrapped the towel around herself, scrapped her hair up into a wet bundle and clipped it tame, wandered into the TARDIS wardrobe.  
Can’t run forever. Time to take that second chance in hand. And listen.  
She had thought of a destination, somewhere to have that conversation, somewhere to be grown ups, so she needed to look the part, for her confidence if nothing else.  
She lifted the dress from the rail and held it against her body, viewed herself in the mirror. It would do nicely with the right accessories and hairstyle.  
‘Do me a favour?’ she said addressing the ship around her, ‘Tell him he needs a tux.’  
The TARDIS whined in ascent.

XXXXXX

  
‘So we’re going upmarket,’ he said. The Doctor’s back was to her as she entered the console room but she could see he’d taken the TARDIS’ advice and dressed appropriately, a rich burgundy velvet jacket cut neatly to his figure and dark tuxedo trousers. ‘With the clothes? Am I to assume we’re not going anywhere with aliens…?’ he turned with a welcoming smile and then faltered when he saw her.  
‘No aliens today,’ Clara said trying to hold his gaze, he fidgeted slightly, his lips parted and closed again and then he looked away a little embarrassed. She stepped closer.  
‘So what do you fancy? I mean… where have you got planned…?’ he pressed buttons randomly in a pattern that would have fooled anyone but her, he was just trying to look occupied and unaffected.  
‘Can you guess from the outfits?’  
‘Earth… mid twentieth century?’ he guessed, ‘Beyond that you may have to be more specific.’  
‘New York,’ she requested, ‘There’s a concert I want to see.’

XXXXXXXXX

New York, February 1962, Birdland Jazz Club.  
‘I hope you don’t mind, I picked one of the quieter nights,’ The Doctor was explaining as they approached the club, ‘Bit of a tricky era and venue for me….’  
‘Oh?’ Clara pulled the fur shrug closer around her shoulders, the night air chilling her where her long satin gloves ended at her elbows.  
‘Ex wife… loved this place,’ he explained as casually as he could.  
Clara felt a little stab of jealousy. ‘Ex wife as in… which ex wife?’ Clearly not Elizabeth I.  
‘Marilyn,’ he said without looking at her, ‘But… different face back then… even if we do run into her… won’t know me….’  
‘Are we likely to run into her?’ Clara asked slightly annoyed.  
‘No… just being careful.’  
She grit her teeth a little, why had he always met these people or in this case dated them? It made everything so awkward, particularly tonight when she was trying to… resolve things. Clara eyed the entrance to the club, the black awnings suspended over the security men at the door and the steps down into the basement. She watched as an attractive looking couple were greeted and admitted, the woman dripping with fur and diamonds, the man straight from a romantic matinee.  
‘Is that…?’ she squeaked.  
‘Whole host of rich and famous attendees,’ the Doctor said, ‘Just try not to look too awestruck.’  
‘She’s wearing my dress!’  
‘I think you’ll find you’re probably wearing hers… Audrey Hepburn was quite the trend setter…’  
Clara looked down at her elegant black dress, modestly covering her neckline but split to above the knee on one side. She’d been proud of her choice and the way it seemed to have stopped the Doctor in his tracks earlier but now she felt second rate. She glanced back at Audrey; the actress had better jewellery.  
‘One of the most beautiful women in the world,’ Clara said with just a tinge of envy.  
‘One of… not the most…’ the Doctor corrected her quietly. Clara raised her eyes to him but he wouldn’t return her gaze, ‘Come on,’ he encouraged, taking her arm.  
They reached the club and he produced the trusty psychic paper to gain entrance before leading Clara down into the depths of the place to where the atmosphere swallowed her whole.  
It was relatively quiet as he had promised, a number of empty booths bars and tables still available, and space on the dance floor before the orchestra. On the stage a pretty young woman with caramel skin and bleach blond hair could be seen prepping her next song, leaning over a piano and chatting with the pianist. She wore a striking gold dress and heavy opulent earrings.  
‘That’s her!’ Clara couldn’t help but whisper. She caught the Doctor’s smile before he supressed it and chided her for her enthusiasm.  
‘Yes, Clara, that’s her, try and remain a little dignified.’  
‘But that’s Etta James!’  
‘Yes and her face is almost as round as yours…’ the Doctor said with a touch of wonder.  
‘Shut up you’re so rude! We should sit I think she’s starting…. A booth…’ The Doctor raised his eyebrows as she propelled him towards an intimate corner of the room where she knew they could talk but where she could also keep an eye on the stage. The Etta James, young and vibrant and rich voiced, right there in front of them. Sometimes celebrity spotting on their journeys was far more enjoyable than being chased by aliens, less dangerous but with just as much adrenaline. As she watched her companion settle against the dark material of the booth and summon a waiter she wondered if he felt anywhere near the same way. Certainly he seemed relaxed enough, no tell tale signs of boredom yet. Was he just indulging her?  
Clara glanced over and caught him watching her profile, his eyes immediately dipping away and a slight blush forming on his cheeks. A couple of drinks and she’d broach her topic, she needed to work up the courage.  
Champagne for her and for him, she made him order ginger beer.

  
XXXXXXXX

  
Audrey Hepburn might be in the room but as far as the Doctor was concerned there were only the two of them. At least that was the impression he was very much succeeding in giving to Clara. They were several songs into Etta’s set by now and he was several ginger beers down, his defences lowering and his body language warming, inching towards her until his thigh pressed into hers. When the singer stepped down for an interval they had lapsed into comfortable banter as they waited for her to return and currently this consisted of Clara teasing him about his daring escape from a number of amorous six legged creatures on a planet they had visited at the beginning of the fortnight. He was huffing and protesting at her inability to see the very genuine threat they had posed.  
‘They have fangs, Clara, deep beneath all that pink fur.’  
‘Yeah nasty pointy fangs!’ she mimicked the fangs at either side of their mouths ‘So scary!’ From across the room a well to do woman shot her a disgusted look at her behaviour and Clara quickly dropped her fingers to her lap again and cleared her throat. The Doctor giggled into his drink and she looked across at him, a sudden rush of affection hitting her.  
‘I’m not saying your never brave,’ she consoled, ‘You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met.’  
‘Clara I think you’ve had too much champagne.’  
She smiled softly, ‘No, I’ve had just the right amount. There are things I should have told you long ago and that’s one of them.’  
‘There are others?’  
‘Yes.’  
He raised his eyebrows, ‘Do I want to know these things?’  
Clara leaned forward and covered one of his hands, ‘I want you to.’  
The look of confusion on his face was typical of him, she was clearly bamboozling him with her human-ness and she gave him a sympathetic look.  
‘You’re going to tell me things regardless aren’t you,’ he said, bracing himself against the booth. ‘Go on then.’  
This was it. Clara took a breath and a swig of champagne. He’d opened the door for her to say whatever she wanted to, sitting there in the dim light of the club, surrounded by a low hum of voices, music and the scent of cigarette smoke. He was right there, his focus entirely on her despite his awkwardness, the cool skin of his hand felt through the satin of her glove and the velvet of his jacket brushing against her shoulder.  
‘You’re my hero,’ she blurted out and he flinched. ‘You are…’ she insisted.  
‘I thought that was Robin Hood,’ he deflected.  
‘Shut up you idiot you know it was never him. You’ve always been my hero, ever since I met you. This version of you, the bowtie version, all the versions I’ve seen in echoes, all of them, heroes.’  
‘You’re wrong.’  
‘No… I’m not…’  
She saw him take a deep breath and look up at the stage desperately, cast his eyes in any direction but her as the moisture formed in them. Finally he dropped his gaze again to the table where he now sat stiffly, his relaxed composure shattered by her statement. Damn. She was blowing it.  
‘Clara… why am I your hero?’ he asked after a beat, his voice rough.  
‘Because…’ she spluttered as though it was too obvious to put into words, ‘because you are. Because of the things you do, the people you save, the wars you end…’  
‘Those things aren’t heroic…’  
‘I beg to differ,’ she teased, ‘I think if you read classic adventure stories all those things are in them as examples of heroism. Slaying dragons, saving the damsels, you know acts of fearless bravery!’  
He laughed softly, ‘And you think that’s me?’  
‘Isn’t it?’  
He looked across at her, ‘No, no its not. I’m not a hero Clara, I’m not brave or courageous. Slaying the beast or rescuing the kidnapped princess isn’t bravery.’  
He was looking at her with that expression again, one she had seen now on a few occasions since Christmas and never been able to read. It pleaded with her to interpret it, pleaded with her to see something she couldn’t and it seemed to look a lot like fear.  
‘Then what is?’ she asked.  
‘I’ve lived a long time Clara, seen and done a lot of things that might be considered brave, single acts in defining moments that change the course of history, acute events that shine so bright they are remembered for years afterwards. None of those things are actually anything to do with courage. When the universe throws something at us out of the blue we have to react… or die… so there isn’t much of a choice... generally anything is better than dying.’  
Clara frowned at him, ‘It’s not that black and white… you put yourself on the line for others all the time… you…. Are you alright? This is all getting a bit…’ she strayed from her words. Serious? Heavy? Frighteningly bare? She sensed something was going to happen in the conversation that couldn’t be undone and nerves twisted in her belly.  
‘Sorry,’ he smiled sadly, ‘ I appreciate what youre trying to say. I believe that you believe it, but I don’t think I’m worthy of those terms. It would be a whole lot simpler if I thought like that,’ he laughed sadly, ‘sometimes I remember…’  
‘Remember what?’  
‘A time when I would have agreed with you maybe? When ending a war might be seen as valour. When even I believed I could be a hero.’  
‘What happened to change it?’  
He paused, rotating his glass in one hand, his vision fixed on the ice cubes within.  
‘Trenzalore,’ he said finally and fell silent.  
Trenzalore. She hadn’t heard that word all year and she had almost forgotten the chill it sent to her heart. The place he was supposed to die, the place he did die, and regenerate, the place to which she felt she had lost him forever. She’d known him only a short time before he went there, before he sent her away, before he lived out nine hundred years on a planet which would be his tomb. When she finally found him again a day had passed for her and a millennium for him and he had become old and weak.  
But he had never forgotten her. In the portraits on the walls and the scribblings in his notepads. In the way his face lit up when his tired eyes finally recognised her. He had never forgotten her, he had never stopped…  
Oh God when she had watched him transform she had realised how much she loved him, but he’d realised what he felt long before.  
Hadn’t he?  
Clara watched his face in the dim light of the club and her memories raced. He’d sent her from Trenzalore so she wouldn’t die on that planet with him. He’d let her go, just like he let her go to Danny, always letting go, because it was for the best. Wasn’t it? Was it? Had he loved her then? A year ago for her and a thousand for him. A thousand years of holding on in a frozen world, waiting for the end. Without her. And if he had loved her all that time….  
Bravery wasn’t about actions and deeds, bravery was about time. Time’s slow and painful passage, time’s uncertainty and decay. Bravery was about looking at the darkness ahead, losing everything and seeing nothing, but hoping anyway, and the thing he had hoped for all that time…  
He’d hoped for her. Even if he hadn’t dared to hope to see her he had hoped for her to have the life she wanted and deserved, away from Trenzalore. Because he loved her.  
That was his sacrifice. There was his courage. Right at the centre of his hearts.  
Clara wasn’t sure what to say and her realisation hung heavy in the air with the smoke of the club for a moment before the opening stanzas of Etta’s second half struck up in the orchestra. The Doctor’s face had fallen into the shadows at the back of the booth, his skin pale and his features still. He was terrified. He’d lived a thousand years alone already and now they were on the verge of something new and he was scared. Scared it would go wrong, scared the universe would intervene again, scared she simply didn’t feel the same. So he ran, and he distracted her, and he kept up the pace with adventure and planets and they didn’t have time to think.  
He had waited all that time and now they were together again and he couldn’t believe it was real.  
Clara took his hand suddenly and stood, tugging at his arm. He glanced up quickly and looked at her questioningly.  
‘Come on, dance…’ Clara instructed.  
‘I… I don’t really do dancing…’  
‘I’ve seen you dance the drunken giraffe before now…’ she smiled.  
‘That was a thousand years ago for me…’  
‘Yes… it was…’  
‘And not entirely appropriate for a jazz club…’  
‘No… not appropriate at all,’ she smiled.  
‘So…’  
‘So same people, different circumstances… different dance…’  
She had to drag at first but then he seemed to give in, following her smoothly onto the floor as the music swelled around them. Clara firmly guided him until she was in his embrace and he took over the lead holding her tentatively at first until she insisted on closer contact. She let her head rest against his chest as they moved, felt the double thump if his heart increase against her cheek. Her mind was still buzzing and she wondered if he could sense it as he claimed he sometimes could when her thoughts were busy or loud.  
‘Only slightly,’ he said, ‘I’m hampered by your gloves… touch telepath remember… can’t be certain what you’re thinking…. distinct lack of skin on skin.’  
Clara looked up at him and smirked, ‘Oh,’ she said and he gave her a shy smile.  
‘Sorry, didn’t mean that to sound….’  
‘S’ok…’ her eyes locked with his, ‘I guess they are kind of long, the gloves… and then there’s the dress…and the stockings… and the fur… if I’d thought about it I’d have realised a telepath needs to date a girl in fewer accessories….’  
His eyebrows raised slightly, ‘Is that what this is... officially… a date?’  
‘Well the spaghetti people were great but I wanted to go for romantic this evening.’  
‘Oh…’ he said quietly, looking away for a moment uncomfortably.  
‘Is that ok…?’ she could hear the nerves in her own voice. She suddenly worried that she was rushing or misinterpreting. She remembered the look on his face at Christmas, the way he’d asked her to come on board after their dream confessions, the formal way he held himself, like a proposal. It was a proposal, right? But what if all this theorising and she had been wrong about it all. She caught him looking at her curiously as if half hearing her thought, squinting to try and read her as hard as she was trying to interpret him.  
‘If romantic is what you want…’ he started uncertainly.  
‘If you want it…’  
‘Right…’  
Clara chewed her lip and watched his face, her heart absolutely thumping now and her hands sweating in her gloves. Damned gloves, she wondered if she should take them off, hold his hand, let him read her mind if that’s what he needed.  
Behind them the music shifted and another song began, the final one of the night according to Etta, and one of her most popular. This one, she told the audience, is for the lovers out there. Oh God, he heard and glanced over at the stage, a slight look of alarm on his face. He was going to bolt, she just knew she’d handled this all wrong. She should have picked a planet with a beach, carried on with their adventures, not forced the issues. She shouldn’t have started those conversations about how he was her hero or what he meant to her, shouldn’t have dragged up the memories of that wretched planet where he’d spent so long alone. They had never been god at talking and now she’d made a mess of it all and here she was in her ridiculous dress trying to make them into something they maybe weren’t. Into something maybe he’d never wanted? And to add to it all Etta was belting out what had to be the world’s most romantic song just to add to the tension and the awkwardness.

  
At last my love has come along  
My lonely days are over  
And life is like a song….

  
Clara felt the weight of the Doctor’s gaze on her face and the press of his hand on the small of her back as the opening bars soared.  
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I think I misjudged this all, maybe we should just go…’  
‘Oh…’ he paused, confusion on his face, ‘Do you want to go?’  
‘I… do you?’ she felt her head burn with too many thoughts. Did he? Did she? Were they at cross purposes? ‘Maybe it would be easier if you could just read my mind, I know I wish I could read yours,’ Clara said. Again that puzzled look on his face, his gaze flitting between her large brown eyes and then suddenly a tiny smile, a dimpling in his cheeks.  
‘You know…’ he said softly, ‘Gloves issue aside there is one way I could be sure where we go next…’  
She looked up expecting an explanation but what she got was…

At Last, the skies above are blue  
My heart was wrapped up in clover  
The night I looked at you….

Clara felt his lips brush over hers gently, hesitance in each movement, tiny kisses at the corners of her mouth as he moved her more firmly into his arms. He was taking the risk for her, on a half reading of a few thoughts he could snatch through the soft material of her dress and gloves. He still wasn’t sure and so, quite deliberately, Clara opened her mind as best she knew how, met him half way, and told him what she wanted. She felt him smile, felt him press his mouth against hers gently but confidently now, felt the slow sensuous trace of his tongue part her lips. And in the club the music played on around them, the rich blues vocals singing of dreams and destinies and opportunities not to be missed; of second chances taken, at last.

I found a dream that I could speak to  
A dream that I can call my own  
I found a thrill to press my cheek to  
A thrill I have never known

You smiled, you smiled  
Oh and then the spell was cast  
And here we are in heaven  
For you are mine… at last…


End file.
